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LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 

GERALD  HOWLAND 


PIPES   OF    PAN 

BY 

BLISS   CARMAN 

Five  volumes  as  follows : 
Each  i  vol.,  cloth,  net,  $1.00 

"  "    flexible  leather,         net,    i.jo 

now  ready 
From  the  Book  of   Myths 
From  the  Green  Book  of  the  Bards 
Songs  of  the  Sea  Children 
Songs  from  a  Northern  Garden 

in  preparation 
From  the  Book  of   Pierrot 

L.   C.    PAGE   &    COMPANY 

New  England  Building 
Boston,  Mass. 


Number  Two 

FROM    THE 

GREEN  BOOK  ™E  BARDS 

BY 
BLISS     CARMAN 

AUTHOR   OF    "LOW    TIDE   ON 
GRAND  PRE*,"  "  BALLADS  OF  LOST 
HAVEN,"  ETC.,  JOINT  AUTHOR 
WITH   RICHARD    HOVEY    OF 
"SONGS   FROM    VAGA- 
BONDS,"  ETC. 


Copyright  1901,  by 
The  Ess  Ess  Publishing  Company  (Incorporated) 

Copyright,  1902,  by 

AlHM.KK     M  •  MTANY 

ight,  1902,  by 
«■   Company 

Copyright,  1899,  1900,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Suns 

Copyright,  1900,  by 

HAKPKK    ANU    I'.KOTHBKi 

Copyright,  1903,  by 
L.  C.  Page  &  Company  (Incorporated) 


Published,  May,  1903 


TO   THE 
MEMORY   OF    MY   FRIEND 

(EUtoatU  JRatban  <3ibb& 

Out  of  doors  are  budding  trees,  calling  birds.,  and  opening 

flowers, 
Purple  rainy   distances,  fragrant  -winds  and  lengthening 

hours. 

Only  in  the  loving  heart,  with  its  unforgetting  mind, 
There  is  grief  for  seasons  gone  and  the  friend  it  cannot  find. 

For  upon  this  lovely  earth  mortal  sorrow  still  must  bide, 
And  remembrance  still  must  lurk  like  a  pang  in  beauty^s 
side. 

Ah,  one  wistful  heartache  now  April  with   her  joy  must 

bring, 
And  the  want  of  you  return  always  with  returning  spring  I 


New  York,  April,  1903. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

"Lord  of  My  Heart's  Elation"    ...  i 

The   Green   Book   of  the  Bards   ....  3 

First  Croak 9 

A  Supplication 15 

April  Weather 16 

Spring   Magic 20 

The  Enchantress 23 

The   Madness  of   Ishtar 25 

A  Creature  Catechism 32 

sursum   corda 40 

The  Word  in  the  Beginning 49 

From  an  Old  Ritual 68 

Fellow  Travellers 70 

The  Field  by  the  Sea 71 

The  Dancers  of  the  Field 74 

The  Breath  of  the  Reed 76 

Poppies 80 


CONTENTS 


Pace 

Compensation 83 

The  Spell 88 

A  Forest  Shrine 90 

Among  the  Aspens 95 

The  Green  Dancers 105 

The  Wind  at  the  Door lie 

At  the  Yellow  of  the  Leaf 114 

The  Silent  Wayfellow 119 

Pictor  Ignotus 125 

Ephemeron 130 

The  Heretic 133 

After  School 137 


"LORD    OF   MY   HEART'S 
ELATION." 

Lord  of  my  heart's  elation, 
Spirit  of  things  unseen, 
Be  thou  my  aspiration 
Consuming  and  serene  ! 

Bear  up,  bear  out,  bear  onward 
This  mortal  soul  alone, 
To  selfhood  or  oblivion, 
Incredibly  thine  own, — 

As  the  foamheads  are  loosened 
And  blown  along  the  sea, 
Or  sink  and  merge  forever 
In  that  which  bids  them  be. 


LORD     OF     MY     HEART    S     ELATION 

I,  too,  must  climb  in  wonder, 
Uplift  at  thy  command, — 
Be  one  with  my  frail  fellows 
Beneath  wind's  strong  hand, 

A  fleet  and  shadowy  column 
Of  dust  or  mountain  rain, 
To  walk  the  earth  a  moment 
And  be  dissolved  again. 

Be  thou  my  exaltation 
Or  fortitude  of  mien, 
Lord  of  the  world's  elation 
Thou  breath  of  things  unseen  ! 


THE  GREEN  BOOK  OF  THE 

BARDS. 

There  is  a  book  not  written 
By  any  human  hand, 
The  prophets  all  have  studied, 
The  priests  have  always  banned. 

I  read  it  every  morning, 
I  ponder  it  by  night ; 
And  Death  shall  overtake  me 
Trimming  my  humble  light. 

He'll  say,  as  did  my  father 
When  I  was  young  and  small, 
"  My  son,  no  time  for  reading  ! 
The  night  awaits  us  all." 


THE  GREEN  BOOK  OF  THE  BARDS 

He'll  smile,  as  did  my  father 
When  I  was  small  and  young, 
That  I  should  be  so  eager 
Over  an  unknown  tongue. 

Then  I  would  leave  my  volume 
And  willingly  obey,  — 
Get  me  a  little  slumber 
Against  another  day. 

Content  that  he  who  taught  me 
Should  bid  me  sleep  awhile, 
I  would  expect  the  morning 
To  bring  his  courtly  smile  ; 

New  verses  to  decipher, 
New  chapters  to  explore, 
While  loveliness  and  wisdom 
Grew  ever  more  and  more. 


THE  GREEN  BOOK  OF  THE  BARDS 

For  who  could  ever  tire 

Of  that  wild  legendry, 

The  folk-lore  of  the  mountains, 

The  drama  of  the  sea  ? 

I  pore  for  days  together 
Over  some  lost  refrain,  — 
The  epic  of  the  thunder, 
The  lyric  of  the  rain. 

This  was  the  creed  and  canon 
Of  Whitman  and  Thoreau, 
And  all  the  free  believers 
Who  worshipped  long  ago. 

Here  Amiel  in  sadness, 
And  Burns  in  pure  delight, 
Sought  for  the  hidden  import 
Of  man's  eternal  plight. 


THE  GREEN  BOOK  OF  THE  BARDS 

No  Xenophon  nor  Caesar 
This  master  had  for  guide, 
Yet  here  are  well  recorded 
The  marches  of  the  tide. 

Here  are  the  marks  of  greatness 
Accomplished  without  noise, 
The  Elizabethan  vigour, 
And  the  Landorian  poise  ; 

The  sweet  Chaucerian  temper, 
Smiling  at  all  defeats  ; 
The  gusty  moods  of  Shelley, 
The  autumn  calms  of  Keats. 

Here  were  derived  the  gospels 
Of  Emerson  and  John  ; 
'Twas  with  this  revelation 
The  face  of  Moses  shone. 


THE  GREEN  BOOK  OF  THE  BARDS 

Here  Blake  and  Job  and  Omar 
The  author's  meaning  traced ; 
Here  Virgil  got  his  sweetness, 
And  Arnold  his  unhaste. 

Here  Horace  learned  to  question, 
And  Browning  to  reply, 
When  Soul  stood  up  on  trial 
For  her  mortality. 

And  all  these  lovely  spirits 
Who  read  in  the  great  book, 
Then  went  away  in  silence 
With  their  illumined  look, 

Left  comment,  as  time  furnished 
A  margin  for  their  skill,  — 
Their  guesses  at  the  secret 
Whose  gist  eludes  us  still. 


THE     GREEN     BOOK     OF    THE     BARDS 

And  still  in  that  green  volume, 
With  ardour  and  with  youth 
Undaunted,  my  companions 
Are  searching  for  the  truth. 

One  page,  entitled  Grand  Pre, 
Has  the  idyllic  air 
That  Bion  might  have  envied  : 
I  set  a  foot-note  there. 


FIRST    CROAK. 

Northward,  crow, 
Croak  and  fly  ! 
Tell  her  I 
Long  to  go,  — 

Only  am 

Satisfied 

Where  the  wide 
Maples  flame, 

Over  those 
Hills  of  fir, 
Flooding  her 
Morning  snows. 


FIRST     CROAK 


Thou  shalt  see 
Break  and  sing 
Days  of  spring, 
Dawning  free. 

Northward,  crow, 
Croak  and  fly,  — 
Strive,  or  die 
Striving  so  ! 

Darker  hearts, 
We,  than  some 
Who  shall  come 
When  spring  starts. 

Well  I  see, 
You  and  I 
By  and  by 
Shall  get  free. 


FIRST     CROAK 


Only  now, 
Beat  away 
As  we  may 
Best  know  how ! 

Never  soar 
We,  nor  float ; 
But  one  note, 
And  no  more. 

Northward,  crow, 
Croak  and  fly  ! 
Would  that  I 
Too  might  go  ! 

Lark  or  thrush 
Someday,  you 
Up  the  blue 
Cleave  the  hush. 


FIRST     CROAK. 


O  the  joy 
Then  you  feel, 
Who  shall  steal 
Or  destroy  ? 

Have  not  I 
Known  how  good, 
Field  and  wood, 
Stream  and  sky  ?  — 

Longed  to  free 
Soul  in  flight, 
Night  by  night, 
Tree  to  tree  ? 

Northward,  crow, 
Croak  and  fly 
You  and  I,  — 
Striving,  go. 


FIRST     CROAK 


Still  though  fail 
Singing,  keep 
Croaking  deep 
Strong  and  hale  ! 

Flying  straight, 
Soon  we  go 
Where  the  snow 
Tarries  late. 

Yet  the  spring 
Is  —  how  sweet ! 
Hark  that  beat ; 
Goldenwing  ! 

Good  for  all 
Faint  of  heart, 
What  a  start 
In  his  call ! 

13 


FIRST     CROAK 


Northward,  crow, 
Croak  and  fly, 
Though  the  sky 
Thunder  No ! 


14 


A   SUPPLICATION. 

O  April,  angel  of  our  mortal  joy, 
Consoler  of  our  human  griefs  and  fears, 
Bringer  of  sunshine  to  this  old  grey  earth, 
Hear  once  again  the  prayer  of  thy  lone  child, 
Return,  return  ! 

Mother  of  solace  in  the  soft  spring  rain, 
Restorer  of  sane  health  to  wounded  souls, 
Ah,  tarry  not  thy  coming  to  our  doors, 
But  soon  with  twilight  and  the  robin's  voice, 
Return. 

Behold,  across  the  borders  of  the  world, 
We  wait  thy  reappearance  with  the  flowers, 
Disconsolate,  dispirited,  forlorn, 
Our  only  childish  and  perpetual  prayer, 
"  Return,  return  !  " 
15 


APRIL    WEATHER. 

Soon,  ah,  soon  the  April  weather 
With  the  sunshine  at  the  door, 
And  the  mellow  melting  rain-wind 
Sweeping  from  the  South  once  more. 

Soon  the  rosy  maples  budding, 
And  the  willows  putting  forth, 
Misty  crimson  and  soft  yellow 
In  the  valleys  of  the  North. 

Soon  the  hazy  purple  distance, 
Where  the  cabined  heart  takes  wing, 
Eager  for  the  old  migration 
In  the  magic  of  the  spring. 


16 


APRIL     WEATHER 


Soon,  ah,  soon  the  budding  windflowers 
Through  the  forest  white  and  frail, 
And  the  odorous  wild  cherry 
Gleaming  in  her  ghostly  veil. 

Soon  about  the  waking  uplands 
The  hepaticas  in  blue,  — 
Children  of  the  first  warm  sunlight 
In  their  sober  Quaker  hue, — 

All  our  shining  little  sisters 
Of  the  forest  and  the  field, 
Lifting  up  their  quiet  faces 
With  the  secret  half  revealed. 

Soon  across  the  folding  twilight 
Of  the  round  earth  hushed  to  hear, 
The  first  robin  at  his  vespers 
Calling  far,  serene  and  clear. 


17 


APRIL     WEATHER 


Soon  the  waking  and  the  summons, 
Starting  sap  in  bole  and  blade, 
And  the  bubbling,  marshy  whisper 
Seeping  up  through  bog  and  glade. 

Soon  the  frogs  in  silver  chorus 

Through  the  night,  from  marsh  and  swale, 

Blowing  in  their  tiny  oboes 

All  the  joy  that  shall  not  fail,  — 

Passing  up  the  old  earth  rapture 
By  a  thousand  streams  and  rills, 
From  the  red  Virginian  valleys 
To  the  blue  Canadian  hills. 

Soon,  ah,  soon  the  splendid  impulse, 
Nomad  longing,  vagrant  whim, 
When  a  man's  false  angels  vanish 
And  the  truth  comes  back  to  him. 


18 


APRIL     WEATHER 


Soon  the  majesty,  the  vision, 
And  the  old  unfaltering  dream, 
Faith  to  follow,  strength  to  stablish, 
Will  to  venture  and  to  seem ; 

All  the  radiance,  the  glamour, 
The  expectancy  and  poise, 
Of  this  ancient  life  renewing 
Its  temerities  and  joys. 

Soon  the  immemorial  magic 
Of  the  young  Aprilian  moon, 
And  the  wonder  of  thy  friendship 
In  the  twilight  —  soon,  ah,  soon  ! 


»9 


SPRING    MAGIC. 

This  morning  soft  and  brooding 
In  the  warm  April  rain, 
The  doors  of  sense  are  opened 
To  set  me  free  again. 

I  pass  into  the  colour 
And  fragrance  of  the  flowers, 
And  melt  with  every  bird-cry 
To  haunt  the  mist-blue  showers. 

I  thrill  in  crimson  quince-buds 
To  raptures  without  name ; 
And  in  the  yellow  tulips 
Burn  with  a  pure  still  flame. 


SPRING     MAGIC 


I  blend  with  the  soft  shadows 
Of  the  young  maple  leaves, 
And  mingle  in  the  rain-drops 
That  shine  along  the  eaves. 

I  lapse  among  the  grasses 
That  green  the  river's  brink ; 
And  with  the  shy  wood  creatures 
Go  down  at  need  to  drink. 

I  fade  in  silver  music, 
Whose  fine  unnumbered  notes 
The  frogs  and  rainy  fifers 
Blow  from  their  reedy  throats. 

No  glory  is  too  splendid 
To  house  this  soul  of  mine, 
No  tenement  too  lowly 
To  serve  it  for  a  shrine. 


SPRING     MAGIC 


How  is  it  we  inherit 
This  marvel  of  new  birth, 
Sharing  the  ancient  wonder 
And  miracle  of  earth  ? 

What  wisdom,  what  enchantment, 
What  magic  of  Green  Fire, 
Could  make  the  dust  and  water 
Obedient  to  desire  ? 

Keep  thou,  by  some  large  instinct, 
Unwasted,  fair,  and  whole, 
The  innocence  of  nature, 
The  ardour  of  the  soul ; 

And  through  the  house  of  being 
Thou  art  at  liberty 
To  pass,  enjoy,  and  linger, 
Inviolate  and  free. 


THE    ENCHANTRESS. 

Have  you  not  seen  a  witch  to-day 
Go  dancing  through  the  misty  woods, 
Her  mad  young  beauty  hid  beneath 
A  tattered  gown  of  crimson  buds  ? 

She  glinted  through  the  alder  swamp, 
And  loitered  by  the  willow  stream, 
Then  vanished  down  the  wood-road  dim, 
With  bare  brown  throat  and  eyes  a-dream. 

The  wild  white  cherry  is  her  flower, 
Her  bird  the  flame-bright  oriole ; 
She  comes  with  freedom  and  with  peace, 
And  glad  temerities  of  soul. 


23 


THE      ENCHANTRESS 


Her  lover  is  the  great  Blue  Ghost, 
Who  broods  upon  the  world  at  noon, 
And  wooes  her  wonder  to  his  will 
At  setting  of  the  frail  new  moon. 


24 


THE    MADNESS    OF   ISHTAR. 

Vermilion  and  ashen  and  azure, 
Pigment  of  leaf  and  wing, 
What  will  the  sorceress  Ishtar 
Make  out  of  colour  and  spring  ? 

Of  old  was  she  not  Aphrodite, 
She  who  is  April  still, 
Mistress  of  longing  and  beauty, 
The  sea,  and  the  Hollow  Hill  ? 

Ashtoreth,  Tanis,  Astarte  — 
A  thousand  names  she  has  borne, 
Since  the  first  new  moon's  white  magic 
Was  laid  on  a  world  forlorn. 


25 


THE      MADNESS      OF     ISHTAR 

Odour  of  tulip  and  cherry, 
Scent  of  the  apple  blow, 
Tang  of  the  wild  arbutus  — 
These  to  her  crucible  go. 

Honey  of  lilac  and  willow, 
The  spoil  of  the  plundering  bees, 
Savour  of  sap  from  the  maples  — 
What  will  she  do  with  these  ? 

Oboe  and  flute  in  the  forest, 
And  pipe  in  the  marshy  ground, 
And  the  upland  call  of  the  flicker  — 
What  will  she  make  of  sound  ? 

Start  of  the  green  in  the  meadow, 
Push  of  the  seed  in  the  mould, 
Burst  of  the  bud  into  blossom  — 
What  will  her  cunning  unfold  ? 


26 


THE     MADNESS     OF     ISHTAR 

The  waning  belt  of  Orion, 
The  crescent  zone  of  the  moon  — 
What  is  the  mystic  transport 
We  shall  see  accomplished  soon  ? 

The  sun  and  the  rain  and  the  South  wind, 
With  all  the  treasure  they  bring  — 
What  will  the  sorceress  Ishtar 
Make  from  the  substance  of  spring  ? 

She  will  gather  the  blue  and  the  scarlet, 
The  yellow  and  crimson  dye, 
And  weave  them  into  a  garment 
Of  magical  texture  and  ply. 

And  whoso  shall  wear  that  habit 
And  favour  of  the  earth, 
He  shall  be  lord  of  his  spirit, 
The  creatures  shall  know  his  worth. 


27 


THE     MADNESS     OF     ISHTAR 

She  will  gather  the  broken  music, 
Fitting  it  chord  by  chord, 
Till  the  hearer  shall  learn  the  meaning, 
As  a  text  that  has  been  restored. 

She  will  gather  the  fragrance  of  lilacs, 
The  scent  of  the  cherry  flower, 
And  he  who  perceives  it  shall  wonder, 
And  know,  and  remember  the  hour. 

She  will  gather  the  moonlight  and  starshine, 
And  breathe  on  them  with  desire, 
And  they  shall  be  changed  on  the  moment 
To  the  marvel  of  earth's  green  fire,  — 

The  ardour  that  kindles  and  blights  not, 
Consumes  and  does  not  destroy, 
Renewing  the  world  with  wonder, 
And  the  hearts  of  men  with  joy. 


28 


THE     MADNESS     OF     ISHTAR 

For  this  is  the  purpose  of  Ishtar, 
In  her  great  lone  house  of  the  sky, 
Beholding  the  work  of  her  hands 
As  it  shall  be  by  and  by  : 

Out  of  the  passion  and  splendour, 
Faith,  failure  and  daring,  to  bring 
The  illumined  dream  of  the  spirit 
To  perfection  in  some  far  spring. 

Therefore,  shall  we  not  obey  her,  — 
Awake  and  be  glad  and  aspire, — 
Wise  with  the  ancient  knowledge, 
Touched  with  the  earthly  fire  ? 

In  the  spell  of  the  wild  enchantment 
The  shy  wood  creatures  know, 
Must  we  not  also  with  Ishtar 
Unhindered  arise  and  go  ? 


29 


THE      MADNESS      OF     ISHTAR 

Hearing  the  call  and  the  summons, 
Heeding  the  hint  and  the  sign, 
Rapt  in  the  flush  and  the  vision, 
Shall  we  demur  or  repine  ? 

Dare  you  deny  one  impulse, 
Dare  I  one  joy  suppress  ? 
Knowing  the  might  and  dominion, 
The  lure  and  the  loveliness, 

Delirium,  glamour,  bewitchment, 
Bidding  earth  blossom  and  sing, 
Shall  we  falter  or  fail  to  follow 
The  voice  of  our  mother  in  spring  ? 

For  Love  shall  be  clothed  with  beauty, 
And  walk  through  the  world  again, 
Hearing  the  haunted  cadence 
Of  an  immortal  strain  ; 


3° 


THE     MADNESS     OF     ISHTAR 

Caring  not  whence  he  wandered, 
Fearing  not  whither  he  goes, 
Great  with  the  fair  new  freedom 
That  every  earth-child  knows ; 

Impetuous  as  the  wood-wind, 
Ingenuous  as  a  flower, 
Glad  with  the  fulness  of  being, 
Born  of  the  perfect  hour  ; 

Counting  not  cost  nor  issue, 
Weighing  not  end  and  aim, 
Sprung  from  the  clay-built  cabin 
To  powers  that  have  no  name. 

And  with  all  his  soul  and  body 
He  shall  only  seek  one  thing ; 
For  that  is  the  madness  of  Ishtar, 
Which  comes  upon  earth  in  spring. 


3i 


A   CREATURE    CATECHISM, 
i. 

Soul,  what  art  thou  in  the  tribes  of  the  sea  ? 

Lord,  said  a  flying  fish, 
Below  the  foundations  of  storm 
We  feel  the  primal  wish 
Of  the  earth  take  form. 

Through  the  dim  green  water-fire 
We  see  the  red  sun  loom, 
And  the  quake  of  a  new  desire 
Takes  hold  on  us  down  in  the  gloom. 

No  more  can  the  filmy  drift 
Nor  drafty  currents  buoy 
Our  whim  to  its  bent,  nor  lift 
Our  heart  to  the  height  of  its  joy. 


32 


A     CREATURE     CATECHISM 

When  sheering  down  to  the  Line 
Come  polar  tides  from  the  North, 
Thy  silver  folk  of  the  brine 
Must  glimmer  and  forth. 

Down  in  the  crumbling  mill 
Grinding  eternally, 
We  are  the  type  of  thy  will 
To  the  tribes  of  the  sea. 


II. 

Soul,  what  art  thou  in  the  tribes  of  the  air  ? 

Lord,  said  a  butterfly, 
Out  of  a  creeping  thing, 
For  days  in  the  dust  put  by, 
The  spread  of  a  wing 


33 


A     CREATURE     CATECHISM 

Emerges  with  pulvil  of  gold 
On  a  tissue  of  green  and  blue, 
And  there  is  thy  purpose  of  old 
Unspoiled  and  fashioned  anew. 

Ephemera,  ravellings  of  sky 
And  shreds  of  the  Northern  light, 
We  age  in  a  heart-beat  and  die 
Under  the  eaves  of  night. 

What  if  the  small  breath  quail, 
Or  cease  at  a  touch  of  the  frost  ? 
Not  a  tremor  of  joy  shall  fail, 
Nor  a  pulse  be  lost. 

This  fluttering  life,  never  still, 
Survives  to  oblivion's  despair. 
We  are  the  type  of  thy  will 
To  the  tribes  of  the  air. 


34 


A     CREATURE     CATECHISM 


HI. 

Soul,  what  art  thou  in  the  tribes  of  the  field? 

Lord,  said  a  maple  seed, 

Though  well  we  are  wrapped  and  bound, 

We  are  the  first  to  give  heed, 

When  thy  bugles  give  sound. 

We  banner  thy  House  of  the  Hills 
With  green  and  vermilion  and  gold, 
When  the  floor  of  April  thrills 
With  the  myriad  stir  of  the  mould, 

And  her  hosts  for  migration  prepare. 
We  too  have  the  veined  twin-wings, 
Vans  for  the  journey  of  air. 
With  the  urge  of  a  thousand  springs 


35 


A     CREATURE     CATECHISM 

Pent  for  a  germ  in  our  side, 
We  perish  of  joy,  being  dumb, 
That  our  race  may  be  and  abide 
For  aeons  to  come. 

When  rivulet  answers  to  rill 
In  snow-blue  valleys  unsealed, 
We  are  the  type  of  thy  will 
To  the  tribes  of  the  field. 


IV. 

Soul,  what  art  thou  in  the  tribes  of  the  ground  ? 

Lord,  when  the  time  is  ripe, 
Said  a  frog  through  the  quiet  rain, 
We  take  up  the  silver  pipe 
For  the  pageant  again. 

36 


A     CREATURE     CATECHISM 

When  the  melting  wind  of  the  South 
Is  over  meadow  and  pond, 
We  draw  the  breath  of  thy  mouth, 
Reviving  the  ancient  bond. 

Then  must  we  fife  and  declare 
The  unquenchable  joy  of  earth,  — 
Testify  hearts  still  dare, 
Signalise  beauty's  worth. 

Then  must  we  rouse  and  blow 
On  the  magic  reed  once  more, 
Till  the  glad  earth-children  know 
Not  a  thing  to  deplore. 

When  rises  the  marshy  trill 

To  the  soft  spring  night's  profound, 

We  are  the  type  of  thy  will 

To  the  tribes  of  the  ground. 


37 


A     CREATURE     CATECHISM 


V. 

Soul,  what  art  thou  in  the  tribes  of  the  earth  ? 

Lord,  said  an  artist  born, 
We  leave  the  city  behind 
For  the  hills  of  open  morn, 
For  fear  of  our  kind. 

Our  brother  they  nailed  to  a  tree 
For  sedition  ;  they  bully  and  curse 
All  those  whom  love  makes  free. 
Yet  the  very  winds  disperse 

Rapture  of  birds  and  brooks, 
Colours  of  sea  and  cloud, — 
Beauty  not  learned  of  books, 
Truth  that  is  never  loud. 


38 


A     CREATURE     CATECHISM 

We  model  our  joy  into  clay, 
Or  help  it  with  line  and  hue, 
Or  hark  for  its  breath  in  stray 
Wild  chords  and  new. 

For  to-morrow  can  only  fulfil 
Dreams  which  to-day  have  birth ; 
We  are  the  type  of  thy  will 
To  the  tribes  of  the  earth. 


39 


SURSUM     CORD  A. 
i. 

The  wind  on  the  sea, 

The  breath  of  God  over  the  face  of  the  deep, 
Whispers  a  word 

The  tribes  of  his  watery  dominion   rejoice  having 
heard. 

To-day  through  the  vaultless  chambers 
Of  the  sea,  below  the  range 
Of  light's  great  beam  to  fathom, 
Soundless,  unsearched  of  change, 

There  passed  more  vague  than  a  shadow 

Which  is,  then  is  no  more, 

The  aura  and  draft  of  being, 

Like  a  breath  through  an  open  door. 


40 


SURSUM     CORDA 


The  myriad  fins  are  moving, 
The  marvellous  flanges  play ; 
Herring  and  shad  and  menhaden, 
They  stir  and  awake  and  away. 

Ungava,  Penobscot,  Potomac, 
Key  Largo  and  Fundy  side, 
The  droves  of  the  frail  sea  people 
Are  arun  in  the  vernal  tide. 

The  old  sea  hunger  to  herd  them, 
The  old  spring  fever  to  drive, 
Within  them  the  thrust  of  an  impulse 
To  wander  and  joy  and  thrive ; 

Below  them  the  lift  of  the  sea-kale, 
Before  them  the  fate  that  shall  be ; 
As  it  was  when  the  first  white  summer 
Drew  the  fog  from  the  face  of  the  sea. 


4i 


SURSUM      CORDA 


II. 

The  wind  on  the  hi//sy 

The  breath  of  God  over  the  tops  of  the  treesy 
Whispers  a  word 

The   tribes   of  his   airy    dominion    rejoice    having 
heard. 

Last  night  we  saw  the  curtain 
Of  the  red  aurora  wave, 
Through  the  ungirdered  heaven 
Built  without  joist  or  trave, 

Fleeting  from  silence  to  silence, 
As  a  mirror  is  stained  by  a  breath,  — 
The  only  sign  from  the  Titan 
Sleeping  in  frosty  death. 


42 


SURSUM      CORD  A 


Yet  over  the  world  this  morning 
The  old  wise  trick  has  been  done  ; 
Our  legions  of  rovers  and  singers, 
Arrived  and  saluting  the  sun. 

The  myriad  wings  atremble, 
The  marvellous  throats  astrain, 
Come  the  airy  migrant  people 
In  the  wake  of  the  purple  rain. 

One  joy  that  needs  no  bidding, 
One  will  that  does  not  quail ; 
The  whitethroat  up  from  the  barren, 
The  starling  down  in  the  swale  ; 

The  honk  and  clamour  of  wild  geese, 
The  call  of  the  goldenwing  ; 
From  valley  to  lonely  valley, 
The  long  exultation  of  spring. 


43 


SURSUM     CORDA 


III. 

The  wind  on  the  fields, 

The  breath  of  God  over  the  face  of  the  ground, 
Whispers  a  word 

The   tribes   of  his   leafy    dominion    rejoice  having 
heard. 

Crimson  of  Indian  willow, 
Orange  of  maple  plume, 
As  a  web  of  endless  pattern 
Falls  from  a  soundless  loom, 

The  wide  green  marvel  of  summer 
Breaks  from  catkin  and  sheath, 
So  silently  only  a  spirit 
Could  guess  at  the  spirit  beneath. 


44 


SURSUM     CORDA 


For  these  are  the  moveless  people, 
Who  only  abide  and  endure, 
Yet  no  less  feel  their  heart  beat 
To  the  lift  of  the  wild  spring  lure. 

These  are  the  keepers  of  silence, 
Who  only  adore  and  are  dumb, 
With  faith's  own  look  of  expecting 
The  bidding  they  know  will  come. 

The  revel  of  leaves  is  beginning, 
The  riot  of  sap  is  astir  ; 
Dogwood  and  peach  and  magnolia 
Have  errands  they  will  not  defer. 

In  the  long  sweet  breath  of  the  rainwind, 
In  the  warm,  sweet  hours  of  sun, 
They  arise  at  the  Sursum  corda, 
A  thousand  uplifted  as  one. 


45 


SURSUM      CORDA 


IV. 

The  wind  in  the  street, 

The  breath  of  God  over  the  roofs  of  the  town, 
tVhispers  a  word 

The  tribes  of  the  Wandering  Shadow  rejoice  having 
heard. 

The  tribes  of  the  Wandering  Shadow  ! 
Ah,  gypsying  spirit  of  man, 
What  tent  hast  thou,  what  solace, 
Since  the  nomad  life  began  ? 

Forever,  wherever  the  springtime 

Halts  by  the  open  door, 

The  heart-sick  are  healed  in  the  sunshine, 

The  sorry  are  sad  no  more. 


46 


SURSUM     CORDA 


Something  brighter  than  morning 
Washes  the  windowpane ; 
Something  wiser  than  knowledge 
Sits  by  the  hearth  again. 

Within  him  the  sweet  disquiet, 
Before  him  the  old  dismay, 
When  the  hand  of  Beauty  beckons 
The  wayfarer  must  away. 

"  A  brother  to  him  who  needs  me, 
A  son  to  her  who  needs; 
Modest  and  free  and  gentle  ;  " 
This  is  his  creed  of  creeds. 

To-night  when  the  belt  of  Orion 
Hangs  in  the  linden  bough, 
The  girl  will  meet  her  lover 
Where  the  quince  is  crimson  now. 


47 


SURSUM      CORDA 


For  the  sun  of  a  thousand  winters 
Will  stop  his  pendulous  swing, 
Ere  man  be  a  misbeliever 
In  the  scarlet  legend  of  spring. 


48 


THE     WORD     IN     THE     BE- 
GINNING. 

In  principio  erat  verbum. 
PRELUDE.1 

This  is  the  sound  of  the  Word 

From  the  waters  of  sleep, 

The  rain-soft  voice  that  was  heard 

On  the  face  of  the  deep, 

When  the  fog  was  drawn  back  like  a  veil,  and 

the  sentinel  tides 
Were  given  their  thresholds  to  keep. 

The  South  Wind  said,  "  Come  forth," 
And  the  West  Wind  said,  "  Go  far  !  " 

1  Reprinted  from  Last  Songs  from  Vagabondia  with  the 
courteous  permission  of  Small,  Maynard  &  Co. 


49 


T  HE      WORD      IN      T  H  E      H  BO  I  N  N  I  NO 

Ami  the  silvery  sea-folk  heard, 

Where  their  word  (ruts  are, 

From  the  long  slow  lift  of  the  blue  through  the 

Cai  ib  keys, 
I  o  the  thresh  on  Sable  bai . 

This  is  the  Won!  that  went  by, 
( )vei  sun-land  and  swale, 

I'lu-  long  Aprilian  cry, 
Clear,  joyous,  and  hale, 

Whin  the  summons  went  forth  to  the  wild  shv 
broods  of  the  air, 

To  bid  them  once  more  to  the  trail. 

The  South  Wind  said,  "Come  forth," 

And  the  West  Wind  said,  M  Be  swift  !  " 

The  fluttering  sky-folk  heard, 

And  the  warm  dark  thrift 


5° 


i  ii  E      vv  o  R  I)      in      T  ii  B     BE  01  N  N  I  N  <• 


Of  the  nomad  Mood  revived,  and  they  gathered 

i., i  flight, 

By  Column  and  pair  and  drift. 

Thl8  is  the  sound  ol   the   Word 

Prom  bud  sheath  and  blade, 

When  the  ueds  and  the  grasses  conferred, 

And  a  gold  beam  was  laid 

At  the  taciturn   doors   ol"  the   forest,  where  tar- 

i  led  the  sun, 
I'oi   a  sign  they    should  not   he  dismayed. 

The  South  Wind  said,  "Come  forth," 

And  the  West   Wind  said,  «  Be  glad  !  " 
The  abiding  WOOd-folk  heard, 
In  (heir  new  green  id. id, 

Sanguine,  mist-silver,  ami  rose,  while  the  sap  in 

(hen   veins 
Welled  up  as  ot  old  all  unsad. 


5» 


THE      WORD      IN      THE      BEGINNING 

This  is  the  Word  that  flew 

Over  snow-marsh  and  glen, 

When  the  frost-bound  slumberers  knew, 

In  tree-trunk  and  den, 

Their  bidding  had   come,  they  questioned  not 

whence  nor  why, — 
They  reckoned  not  whither  nor  when. 

The  South  Wind  said,  «  Come  forth," 

And  the  West  Wind  said,  uBe  wise  !  " 

The  wintering  ground-folk  heard, 

Put  the  dark  from  their  eyes, 

Put  the  sloth  from  sinew  and  thew,  to  wander 

and  dare,  — 
For  ever  the  old  surmise  ! 

This  is  the  Word  that  came 
To  the  spirit  of  Man, 


52 


THE      WORD      IN      THE      BEGINNING 

And  shook  his  soul  like  a  flame 

In  the  breath  of  a  fan, 

Till  it  burned  as  a  light  in  his  eyes,  as  a  colour 

that  grew 
And  prospered  under  the  tan. 

The  South  Wind  said,  "  Come  forth," 

And  the  West  Wind  said,  "  Be  free  !  " 

Then  he  rose  and  put  on  the  new  garb, 

And  knew  he  should  be 

The    master    of   knowledge    and   joy,   though 

sprung  from  the  tribes 
Of  the  earth  and  the  air  and  the  sea. 


S3 


THE      WORD       IN      THE      BEGINNING 


THE    WORD    TO    THE     WATER     PEOPLE. 

Who  hath  uttered  the  formless  whisper, 
The  rumour  afloat  on  the  tide, 
The  need  that  speaks  in  the  heart, 
The  craving  that  will  not  bide  ? 

For  the  word  without  shape  is  abroad, 
The  vernal  portent  of  change  ; 
And   from  winter  grounds,  empty  to-morrow, 
The  fin-folk  will  gather  and  range. 

It  runs  in  the  purple  currents, 
Swaying  the  idle  weed  ; 
It  creeps  by  the  walls  of  coral, 
Where  the  keels  of  the  ebb  recede ; 


54 


THE      WORD       IN       THE      BEGINNING 

It  calls  in  the  surf  above  us, 
In  thunder  of  reef  and  key, 
And  where  the  green  day  filters 
Through  soundless  furlongs  of  sea. 

It  moves  where  the  moving  sea-fans 
Shadow  the  white  sea-floor ; 
It  stirs  where  the  dredging  sand-runs 
Furrow  and  trench  and  score. 

In  channel  and  cave  it  finds  us, 
In  the  curve  of  the  Windward  Isles, 
In  the  sway  of  the  heaving  currents, 
In  the  run  of  the  long  sea-miles, 

In  the  green  Floridian  shallows, 
By  marshes  hot  and  rank, 
And  below  the  reach  of  soundings 
Off  the  Great  Bahaman  Bank. 


55 


THE      WORD      IN      THE      BEGINNING 

The  tribes  of  the  water  people, 
Scarlet  and  yellow  and  blue, 
Are  awake,  for  the  old  sea-magic 
Is  on  them  to  rove  anew. 

They  will  ride  in  the  great  sea-rivers, 
And  feed  in  the  warm  land  streams, 
By  cliffs  where  the  gulls  are  nesting, 
By  capes  where  the  blue  berg  gleams. 

The  fleet  and  shining  thousands 
Will  follow  the  trackless  lead 
Of  the  bidding  that  rises  in  them, 
The  old  ancestral  need. 

Will  they  mistrust  or  falter, 
Question  or  turn  or  veer  ? 
Will  they  put  off  their  harness  of  colour, 
Or  their  gaudy  hues  ungear  ? 


56 


THE      WORD      IN      THE      BEGINNING 

Eager,  unwasted,  undaunted, 
They  go  and  they  go.     They  have  heard 
The  lift  of  the  faint  strong  summons, 
The  lure  of  the  watery  word. 


ii. 

the  word  to  the  people  of  the  air. 

Who  hath  uttered  the  wondrous  hearsay, 
The  rumour  abroad  on  the  air, 
The  tribal  journey  summons, 
The  signal  to  flock  and  fare  ? 

Who  hath  talked  to  the  shy  bird-people, 
And  counselled  the  feathered  breast 
To  follow  the  sagging  rain-wind 
Over  the  purple  crest  ? 


57 


THE       WORD       IN       THE      BEGINNING 

O  tribes  of  the  silver  whistle, 
And  folk  of  the  azure  wing, 
Who  hath  revived  in  a  night 
The  magic  tradition  of  spring  ? 

By  shores  of  the  low  Gulf  Islands, 
Where  the  steaming  lands  emerge, 
By  reefs  of  the  Dry  Tortugas, 
Drenched  by  the  crumbling  surge, 

From  the  hot  and  drowsy  shallows 

Of  the  silent  Everglades, 

From  creamy  coral  beaches 

In  the  breath  of  the  Northeast  Trades, 

We  have  heard,  without  note  or  warble, 
Ouaver  or  chirp  or  trill, 
The  far  and  soft-blown  tidings 
Summon  from  hill  to  hill. 


58 


THE      WORD      IN      THE      BEGINNING 

Up  from  the  blue  horizon, 
By  canyon  and  ridge  and  plain, 
Where  ride  in  misty  columns 
'The  spearmen  of  the  rain, 

The  broods  of  the  light  air-people 
Will  bevy  and  team  and  throng, 
To  fill  the  April  valleys 
With  gurgle  and  lisp  and  song. 

They  know  where  the  new  green  leafage 
Spreads  like  the  sweep  of  day, 
Over  the  low  Laurentians 
And  up  through  the  Kootenay. 

They  know  where  the  nests  are  waiting, 
And  the  icy  ponds  are  thawed, 
For  the  stir  and  the  sight  are  on  them, 
Moving  the  legions  abroad. 


59 


THE      WORD      IN      THE      BEGINNING 

The  oriole  under  Monadnoc 
Will  cast  his  golden  spells  ; 
In  deep  Ontarian  meadows 
The  reed-bird  will  loose  his  bells  ; 

The  thrushes  will  flute  over  Grand  Pre, 
The  quail  by  the  Manomet  shore, 
The  wild  drake  feed  in  the  bogan, 
The  swallow  come  back  to  the  door. 

Tanager,  robin,  and  sparrow, 
Grosbeak,  warbler  and  wren, 
The  children  of  gladness  gather 
In  clearing  and  grove  and  fen 

For  the  bright  primeval  summer, 
In  their  slumbering  heart  having  heard 
A  strain  of  the  great  Resurgam, 
A  call  of  the  airy  word. 


60 


THE      WORD      IN      THE      BEGINNING 

III. 

THE    WORD    TO    PEOPLE    OF    THE    WOOD 

Who  hath  uttered  the  leafy  whisper, 
The  rumour  that  stirs  the  bough, 
That  mounts  with  the  sap,  and  flushes 
The  buds  with  beauty  now  ? 

None  hath  report  of  the  message, 
No  single  authentic  word ; 
Yet  the  tribes  of  the  wood  are  stirring 
At  the  tidings  they  have  heard. 

To-day  will  the  pear-trees  blossom 
And  the  yellow  jasmine  vines, 
Where  the  soft  Gulf  winds  are  surfing 
In  the  dreamy  Georgian  pines. 

61 


THE       WORD       IN       THE      BEGINNING 

To-morrow  the  peach  and  the  redbud 
Will  join  in  the  woodland  pomp, 
Floating  their  crimson  banners 
By  smoky  ridge  and  swamp ; 

And  the  gleaming  white  magnolias, 
In  many  a  city  square, 
Will  unfold  in  the  heavenly  leisure 
Of  the  kindly  Southern  air. 

Next  day  over  grey  New  England 
The  magic  of  spring  will  go, 
Touching  her  marshes  with  yellow, 
Her  hills  with  a  purple  glow. 

Then  the  maple  buds  will  break 
In  an  orange  mist  once  more, 
Through  lone  Canadian  valleys, 
From  Baranov  to  Bras  d'Or. 


62 


THE       WORD       IN       THE      BEGINNING 

And  where  the  snowdrifts  vanish 
From  the  floor  of  their  piney  home, 
Hepatica  and  arbutus, 
The  shy  wood-children,  will  come. 

The  elms  on  the  meadow  islands 
Will  shadow  the  rustling  sedge, 
The  orchards  reveal  the  glory 
Of  earth  by  dike  and  ledge  ; 

The  birch  will  unsheathe  her  tassels, 
The  willow  her  silver  plume, 
When  the  green  hosts  encamp 
By  lake  and  river  and  flume. 

For  the  tides  of  joy  are  running 
North  with  the  sap  and  the  sun, 
And  the  tribes  of  the  wood  are  arrayed 
In  their  splendour  one  by  one. 


63 


THE       WORD       IN       THE      BEGINNING 

Not  one  unprepared  nor  reluctant, 
With  ardour  unspent  they  have  heard 
A  note  of  the  woodland  music, 
A  breath  of  the  wilding  word. 


IV. 
THE  WORD  TO  THE  PEOPLE  OF  THE  GROUND. 

Who  hath  uttered  the  faint  earth-whisper, 
The  rumour  that  spreads  over  ground, 
The  sign  that  is  hardly  a  signal, 
The  sense  that  is  scarcely  sound  ? 

Yet  listen,  the  earth  is  awake, 
The  magic  of  April  is  here ; 
The  all  but  unobserved  signal 
Is  answered  from  far  and  near. 


64 


THE      WORD      IN      THE      BEGINNING 

Go  forth  in  the  morning  and  listen, 
For  the  coming  of  life  is  good  ; 
The  lapsing  of  ice  in  the  rivers, 
The  lisping  of  snow  in  the  wood, 

The  murmur  of  streams  in  the  mountains, 
The  babble  of  brooks  in  the  hills, 
And  the  sap  of  gladness  running 
To  waste  from  a  thousand  stills. 

Go  forth  in  the  noonday  and  listen ; 
A  soft  multitudinous  stir 
Betrays  the  new  life  that  is  moving 
In  the  houses  of  oak  and  fir. 

A  red  squirrel  chirps  in  the  balsam ; 
A  fox  barks  down  in  the  clove  j 
The  bear  comes  out  of  his  tree-bole 
To  sun  himself,  rummage  and  rove. 


65 


THE      WORD      IN      THE      BEGINNING 

In  the  depth  of  his  wilderness  fastness 
The  beaver  comes  forth  from  his  mound, 
And  the  tiny  creatures  awake 
From  their  long  winter  sleep  under  ground. 

Go  forth  in  the  twilight  and  listen 
To  that  music  fine  and  thin, 
When  the  myriad  marshy  pipers 
Of  the  April  night  begin. 

Through  reed-bed  and  swamp  and  shallow 
The  heart  of  the  earth  grows  bold, 
And  the  spheres  in  their  golden  singing 
Are  answered  on  flutes  of  gold. 

One  by  one,  down  in  the  meadow, 
Or  up  by  the  river  shore, 
The  frail  green  throats  are  unstopped, 
And  inflated  with  joy  once  more. 


66 


THE      WORD       IN      THE      BEGINNING 

O  heart,  canst  thou  hear  and  hearken, 
Yet  never  an  answer  bring, 
When  thy  brothers,  the  frogs  in  the  valley, 
Go  mad  with  the  burden  of  spring  ? 

So  the  old  ardours  of  April 
Revive  in  her  creatures  to-day  — 
The  knowledge  that  does  not  falter, 
The  longing  that  will  not  stay, 

And  the  love  that  abides.      Undoubting, 
In  the  deeps  of  their  ken  they  have  heard 
The  ancient  unwritten  decretal, 
The  lift  of  the  buoyant  word. 


07 


FROM    AN   OLD    RITUAL. 

O  dwellers  in  the  dust,  arise, 
My  little  brothers  of  the  field, 
And  put  the  sleep  out  of  your  eyes  ! 
Your  death-doom  is  repealed. 

Lift  all  your  golden  faces  now, 

You  dandelions  in  the  ground  ! 

You  quince  and  thorn  and  apple  bough, 

Your  foreheads  are  unbound. 

O  dwellers  in  the  frost,  awake, 
My  little  brothers  of  the  mould! 
It  is  the  time  to  forth  and  slake 
Your  being  as  of  old. 


68 


FROM     AN     OLD     RITUAL 


You  frogs  and  newts  and  creatures  small 
In  the  pervading  urge  of  spring, 
Who  taught  you  in  the  dreary  fall 
To  guess  so  glad  a  thing  ? 

From  every  swale  your  watery  notes, 
Piercing  the  rainy  cedar  lands, 
Proclaim  your  tiny  silver  throats 
Are  loosened  of  their  bands. 

O  dwellers  in  the  desperate  dark, 
My  brothers  of  the  mortal  birth, 
Is  there  no  whisper  bids  you  mark 
The  Easter  of  the  earth  ? 

Let  the  great  flood  of  spring's  return 
Float  every  fear  away,  and  know 
We  are  all  fellows  of  the  fern 
And  children  of  the  snow. 


69 


FELLOW   TRAVELLERS. 

Green  are  the  buds  of  the  snowball, 
And  green  are  the  little  birds 
That  come  to  fill  my  branches 
Full  of  their  gentle  words. 

What  is  it,  tiny  brothers  ? 
What  are  you  trying  to  say 
Over  and  over  and  over, 
In  your  broken-hearted  way  ? 

Have  you,  too,  darkling  rumours 
In  your  sweet  vagrancy,  — 
News  of  a  vast  encounter 
Of  storm  and  night  and  sea  ? 


70 


THE    FIELD    BY   THE    SEA. 

On  a  grey  day  by  the  sea, 

I  looked  from  the  window  and  saw 

The  beautiful  companies  of  the  daisies  bow 

And  toss  in  the  gusty  flaw. 

For  the  wind  was  in  from  sea ; 

The  heavy  scuds  ran  low  ; 

And  all  the  makers  of  holiday  were  abashed, 

Caught  in  the  easterly  blow. 

My  heart,  too,  is  a  field, 
Peopled  with  shining  forms, 
Beautiful  as  the  companies  of  the  grass, 
And  herded  by  swift  grey  storms. 


7i 


THE      FIELD      BY     THE      SEA 


A  thousand  shapes  of  joy, 

Sunlit  and  fair  and  wild, — 

All  the  bright  dreams  that  make  the  heart  of  a 

man 
As  the  heart  of  a  little  child,  — 

They  dance  to  the  rune  of  the  world, 

The  star-trodden  ageless  rune, 

Glad  as  the  wind-blown  multitudes  of  the  grass, 

White  as  the  daisies  in  June. 

But  over  them,  ah,  what  storms, — 

In  from  the  unknown  sea, 

The  uncharted  and  ever-sounding  desolate  main 

We  have  called  Eternity  ! 

They  shudder  and  quake  and  are  torn, 
As  the  stormy  moods  race  by. 
And  then  in  the  teeth  of  remorse,  the  tempes- 
tuous lull, 
Once  more  the  hardy  cry  : 

72 


THE     FIELD     BY     THE     SEA 

u  Fear  not,  little  folk  of  my  heart, 
Nor  let  the  great  hope  in  you  fail ! 
Being   children    of  light,   ye   are   made    as   the 

flowers  of  the  grass, 
To  endure  and  survive  and  prevail." 


73 


THE    DANCERS    OF   THE 
FIELD. 

The  wind  went  combing  through  the  grass, 
The  tall  white  daisies  rocked  and  bowed  ; 
Such  ecstasy  as  never  was 
Possessed  the  shining  multitude. 

They  turned  their  faces  to  the  sun, 
And  danced  the  radiant  morn  away  ; 
Of  all  his  brave  eye  looked  upon, 
His  daughters  of  delight  were  they. 

And  when  the  round  and  yellow  moon, 
Like  a  pale  petal  of  the  dusk 
Blown  loose  above  the  sea-rim  shone, 
They  gave  me  no  more  need  to  ask 


74 


THE      DANCERS     OF     THE      FIELD 

How  immortality  is  named ; 

For  I  remembered  like  a  dream 

How  ages  since  mv  spirit  flamed 

To  wear  their  guise  and  dance  with  them. 


75 


THE    BREATH    OF   THE    REED. 

/  heard  the  rushes  in  the  twilight, 
I  overheard  them  at  the  dusk  of  day. 

Make  me  thy  priest,  O  Mother, 
And  prophet  of  thy  mood, 
With  ail  the  forest  wonder 
Enraptured  and  imbued. 

Be  mine  but  to  interpret, 
Follow  nor  misemploy, 
The  doubtful  books  of  silence, 
The  alphabet  of  joy. 

A  pipe  beneath  thy  fingers, 
Blown  by  thy  lips  in  spring 
With  the  old  madness,  urging 
Shy  foot  and  furtive  wing, 


76 


THE     BREATH     OF     THE     REED 

A  reed  wherein  the  life-note 
Is  fluted  clear  and  high, 
Immortal  and  unmeasured, — 
No  more  than  this  am  I. 

Delirious  and  plangent, 
I  quiver  to  thy  breath  ; 
Thy  fingers  keep  the  notches 
From  discord  and  from  death. 

Unfaltering,  unflagging, 
Comes  the  long,  wild  refrain, 
With  ardours  of  the  April 
In  woodnotes  of  the  rain. 

Be  mine  the  merest  inkling 
Of  what  the  shore  larks  mean, 
And  what  the  gulls  are  crying 
The  wind  whereon  they  lean. 


77 


THE      BREATH      OF     THE      REED 

Teach  me  to  close  the  cadence 
Of  one  brown  forest  bird, 
Who  opens  so  supremely, 
Then  falters  for  thy  word. 

One  hermit  thrush  entrancing 
The  solitude  with  sound, — 
Give  me  the  golden  gladness 
Of  music  so  profound. 

So  leisurely  and  orbic, 
Serene  and  undismayed, 
He  runs  the  measure  over, 
Perfection  still  delayed. 

No  hurry  nor  annoyance ; 
Enough  for  him,  to  try 
The  large  few  notes  of  prelude 
Which  put  completion  by. 


78 


THE      BREATH      OF     THE     REED 


In  ages  long  hereafter 

His  heritor  may  learn 

What  meant  those  pregnant  pauses, 

And  that  unfinished  turn. 

So  one  shall  read  thy  world-runes 
To  find  them  all  one  day 
Parts  of  a  single  motive, 
Scored  in  an  ancient  way. 

Till  then,  be  mine  to  master 
One  phrase  in  all  that  strain,  — 
The  dominance  of  beauty, 
The  transiency  of  pain, 

As  swayed  by  tides  of  dreaming, 
Or  bowed  by  gusts  of  thought, 
A  reed  within  the  river, 
I  waver  and  am  naught. 


79 


POPPIES. 

I  who  walk  among  the  poppies 
In  the  burning  hour  of  noon, 
Brother  to  their  scarlet  beauty, 
Feel  their  fervour  and  their  swoon. 

In  this  little  wayside  garden, 
Under  the  sheer  tent  of  blue, 
The  dark  kindred  in  forgetting, 
We  are  of  one  dust  and  dew. 

They,  the  summer-loving  gipsies, 
Who  frequent  the  Northern  year; 
From  an  older  land  than  Egypt, 
I,  too,  but  a  nomad  here. 


80 


POPPIES 

All  day  long  the  purple  mountains, 
Those  mysterious  conjurors, 
Send,  in  silent  premonition, 
Their  still  shadows  by  our  doors. 

And  we  listen  through  the  silence 
For  a  far-off  sound,  which  seems 
Like  the  long  reverberant  echo 
Of  a  sea-shell  blown  in  dreams. 

Is  it  the  foreboded  summons 
From  the  fabled  Towers  of  Sleep, 
Bidding  home  the  wandered  children 
From  the  shore  of  the  great  deep  ? 

All  day  long  the  sun-filled  valley, 
Teeming  with  its  ghostly  thought, 
Glad  in  the  mere  lapse  of  being, 
Muses  and  is  not  distraught. 


81 


POPPIES 

Then  suffused  with  earth's  contentment, 
The  slow  patience  of  the  sun, 
As  our  heads  are  bowed  to  slumber 
In  the  shadows  one  by  one, 

Sweet  and  passionless,  the  starlight 
Talks  to  us  of  things  to  be  ; 
And  we  stir  a  little,  shaken 
In  the  cool  breath  of  the  sea. 


82 


COMPENSATION. 

Not  a  word  from  the  poplar-tree  here  on  the 

hill  ? 
Not  a  word  from  the  stream  in  the  bight  of  the 

clove  ? 
Not  a  word  from  trail,  clearing,  or  forest,  to  tell 
Their   brother   returned,    how   all   winter   they 

throve  ? 

The  old  mountain  ledges  lay  purple  in  June ; 
The  green  mountain  walls  arose  hazy  and  dark  ; 
I  saw,  heard,  and  loved  all  their  beauty  anew, 
But  the  soul  in  my  body  lay  deaf,  blind,  and 
stark. 

"  O,    Mother   Natura,    whom    most    with    full 

heart, 
Boy,    stripling,   and    man,    I   have    loved,   dost 

thou  leave 

83 


COMPENSATION 


Unanswered  thy  suppliant,  troubled  thy  son,  — 
To  longing  no  respite,  to  doom  no  reprieve  ?  " 

Days,  weeks,  and  months  passed.  Not  a  whis- 
per outbroke, 

Not  a  word  to  be  caught,  not  a  hint  to  be  had, 

By  the  soul  from  the  world  there,  all  leisure  and 
sun 

In  perfection  of  summer,  warm,  waiting,  and 
glad! 

The    rosebreasted    grosbeak    his    triumph    pro- 
claimed ; 
The  veery  his  wildest  enchantment  renewed  ; 
And  yet  the  old  ardours  not  once  were  relit, 
Nor  the  heart  as  of  old  with  wild  magic  imbued. 

Until  on  an  evening  unlooked  for,  "  O  Son,"  — 
Said  the  stream  in  the  clove,  spoke  the  wind  on 
the  hill  ? 

84 


COMPENSATION 


Did  a  bird  in   his   sleep   find  the   lost   ancient 

tongue, 
Universal  and  clear,  with  the  shadowy  thrill 

Mere   language  has  never  yet   uttered  ?  —  "  O 

Son, 
Was   thy   heart    cold    with    doubt,    hesitation, 

dismay, 
Or  hot  with  resentment,  because,  as  it  seemed, 
For  awhile  it  must  journey  alone  and  away  ? 

"  All  winter  the  torrent  must  sleep  under  snow ; 
All  winter  ash,  poplar,  and  beech  must  endure ; 
All  winter  thy  rapturous  brothers,  the  birds, 
Must  be  silent.      Are  they,  then,  downcast  or 
unsure  ? 

"  Nay,  I  but  give  them  their  seasons  and  times, 
Their   moments   of  joy  and  their  measure  of 
rest  j 

35 


COMPENSATION 


They  keep  the  great  rhythm  of  life's  come  and 

The  unwearied  repose,  the  unhurrying  zest. 

w  With  April  I  lifted  them,  bade  longings  be ; 
With  June  I  have  plenished  their  heart  to  the 

brim. 
Will  they  question  when  over  the  world  I  have 

spread 
The  scarlet  of  autumn  with  frost  at  the  rim  ? 

"  Behold,  while  vexation  was  filling  thy  days, 
Thy  deeper  self,  resting  unmindful  of  harms, 
(With  who  knows  what  dreams  of  the  splendid 

and  true 
To  be  compassed  at  length  !)  lay  asleep  in  my 

arms." 


36 


COMPENSATION 


The  moonlight,  mysterious,  stately,  and  blue, 
Lay  out   on  the  great  mountain  wall,  deep  and 

still ; 
Far  below  the    stream    talked   to    itself  in    the 

clove ; 
The  poplar-tree  talked  to  itself  on  the  hill. 


87 


THE     SPELL. 

I  hung  a  string  of  verses 
Against  my  cabin  wall. 
What  think  you  was  the  fortune 
They  prayed  might  me  befall  ? 

Not  fame  nor  health  nor  riches 
To  tarry  at  my  door, 
But  that  my  vanished  sweetheart 
Might  visit  me  once  more. 

Out  of  the  moted  day-dream 
Among  the  boding  firs, 
They  prayed  she  might  remember 
The  lover  that  was  hers. 


88 


THE     SPELL 

They  prayed  the  gates  of  silence 
A  moment  might  unclose, 
The  hour  before  the  hill-crest 
Is  flushed  with  solemn  rose. 

0  prayers  of  mortal  longing, 
What  latch  can  ye  undo  ? 
What  comrade  once  departed 
Ever  returned  for  you  ? 

All  day  with  tranquil  spirit 

1  kept  my  cabin  door, 

In  wonder  at  the  beauties 
I  had  not  seen  before. 

I  slept  the  dreamless  slumber 
Of  happiness  again  ; 
And  when  I  woke,  the  thrushes 
Were  singing  in  the  rain. 


A     FOREST     SHRINE. 

When  you  hear  that  mellow  whistle 
In  the  beeches  unespied, 
Footfall  soft  as  down  of  thistle 
Turn  aside  ! 

That's  our  golden  hermit  singer 
In  his  leafy  house  and  dim, 
Where  God's  utterances  linger 
Yet  for  him. 

Built  out  of  the  firmamental 
Shafts  of  rain  and  beams  of  sun, 
Norse  and  Greek  and  Oriental 
Here  are  one. 


90 


A     FOREST     SHRINE 

Gothic  oak  and  Latin  laurel 
Here  but  sentry  that  wild  gush 
Of  wood-music  with  their  aural 
Calm  and  hush. 

From  those  hanging  airy  arches 
Soars  the  azure  roof  of  June, 
While  among  the  feathery  larches 
Hangs  the  moon. 

Through  that  unfrequented  portal, 
When  the  twilight  winds  are  low, 
Messengers  of  things  immortal 
Come  and  go  ; 

Whispers  of  a  rumour  hidden 
From  slow  reason,  and  revealed 
To  the  child  of  beauty  bidden 
Far  afield  ; 


9i 


A      FOREST      SHRINE 

Hints  of  rapture  rare  and  splendid 
Furnished  to  the  heart  of  man, 
As  if,  where  mind's  journey  ended, 
Soul's  began  ; 

As  if,  when  we  sighed,  "  No  farther  ! 
Here  our  knowledge  pales  and  thins  ;  " 
One  had  answered  us,  "  Say  rather, 
4  Here  begins.'  " 

Argue  me,  "  There  is  no  gateway 
In  this  great  wall  we  explore," 
Till  there  comes  a  bird-note  ;  straight- 
way, 
There's  the  door ! 

Enter  here,  thou  beauty-lover, 
The  domain  where  soul  resides  ; 
Ingress  thought  could  not  discover, 
Sense  provides. 

92 


A      FOREST      SHRINE 

Ponder  long  and  build  at  leisure, 
Architect ;  yet  canst  thou  rear 
Such  a  house  for  such  a  treasure 
As  is  here  ? 

Leader  of  the  woods  and  brasses, 
Master  of  the  winds  and  strings, 
Hast  thou  music  that  surpasses 
His  who  sings  ? 

You  who  lay  cold  prooPs  embargos 
On  all  wonder-working,  tell 
Whence  those   fine  reverberant  largos 
Sink  and  swell ! 

Hark,  that  note  of  limpid  glory 
Melts  into  the  old  earth-strain, 
And  begins  the  woodland  story 
Once  again. 


93 


A      FOREST      SHRINE 


Hark  that  transport  of  contentment 
Blown  into  a  mellow  reed, 
Wild,  yet  tranquil  —  soul's  preventment 
Of  soul's  need. 

There  the  master  voluntaries 
On  his  pipe  of  greenish  gold  j 
The  wise  theme  whereon  he  varies, 
Never  old. 

What  do  we  with  those  who  grieve  them 
O'er  the  fevers  of  the  mind  ? 
Beauty's  follower  will  leave  them 
Far  behind. 

As  the  wind  among  the  rushes, 
Were  it  not  enough  to  know 
The  sure  joyance  of  the  thrushes  ? 
Even  so. 


94 


AMONG   THE   ASPENS. 


THE    LOST    WORD. 

The  word  of  the  wind  to  the  aspens 
I  listened  all  day  to  hear; 
But  over  the  hill  or  down  in  the  swale 
He  vanished  as  I  drew  near. 

I  asked  of  the  quaking  shadows, 
I  questioned  the  shy  green  bird  ; 
But  the  falling  river  bore  away 
The  secret  I  would  have  heard. 

Then  I  turned  to  my  forest  cabin 

In  a  clove  of  the  Kaaterskill ; 

And  at  dead  of  night,  when  the  fire  was  low, 

The  whisper  came  to  my  sill. 


95 


AMONG     THE     ASPENS 


Now  I  know  there  will  haunt  me  ever 
That  word  of  the  ancient  tongue, 
Whose  golden  meaning,  half  divined, 
Was  lost  when  the  world  was  young. 

I  know  I  must  seek  and  seek  it, 
Through  the  wide  green  earth  and  round, 
Though  I  come  in  ignorance  at  last 
To  the  place  of  the  Grassy  Mound. 

Yet  it  may  be  I  shall  find  it, 
If  I  keep  the  patience  mild, 
The  pliant  faith,  the  eager  mind, 
And  the  heart  of  a  little  child. 


96 


AMONG      THE     ASPENS 


II. 

LEAF    TO    LEAF. 

You  know  how  aspens  whisper 
Without  a  breath  of  air  ! 
I  overheard  one  lisper 
Yesterday  declare, 

"  When  all  the  woods  are  sappy 
And  the  sweet  winds  arrive, 
My  dancing  leaves  are  happy 
Just  to  be  alive." 

And  presently  another, 
With  that  laconic  stir 
We  take  to  be  each  other5 
Spoke  and  answered  her, 


97 


AMONG     THE     ASPENS 


"  When  the  great  frosts  shall  splinter 
Our  brothers  oak  and  pine, 
In  the  long  night  of  winter 
Glad  fortitude  be  thine  !  " 

And  where  the  quiet  river 
Runs  by  the  quiet  hill, 
I  heard  the  aspens  shiver, 
Though  all  the  air  was  still. 


in. 

THE    PASSER    BY. 


Said  Aspen  Heart  to  Ouaking  Leaf, 
"  Who  goes  by  on  the  hill, 
That  you  should  tremble  at  dead  of  noon 
When  the  whole  earth  is  still  ?  " 


98 


AMONG     THE     ASPENS 


Said  Quaking  Leaf  to  Aspen  Heart, 
"  A  loneliness  drew  nigh, 
And  fear  was  on  us,  when  we  heard 
The  mountain  rain  go  by." 

Said  Aspen  Heart  to  Quaking  Leaf, 
"  Who  went  by  on  the  hill  ? 
The  rain  was  but  your  old  grey  nurse 
Crossing  the  granite  sill." 

Said  Quaking  Leaf  to  Aspen  Heart, 
"  There  was  a  ghostly  sigh, 
And  frosty  hands  were  laid  on  us, 
As  the  lone  fog  went  by." 

Said  Aspen  Heart  to  Quaking  Leaf, 
"  But  who  went  by  on  the  hill  ? 
The  white  fogs  were  your  playfellows, 
And  your  companions  still." 


99 


AMONG     THE     ASPENS 


Said  Quaking  Leaf  to  Aspen  Heart, 
"  We  shook,  I  know  not  why, 
Huddled  together  when  we  saw 
A  passing  soul  go  by." 


IV. 
THE    (QUESTION. 

I  wondered  who 

Kept  pace  with  me,  as  I  wandered  through 

The  mountain  gorges  blue. 

I  said  to  the  aspen  leaves, 

The  timorous  garrulous  tribe  of  the  forest  folk, 

II  Who  people  the  wilderness, 
When  the  wind  is  away, 
And  sparrow  and  jay 

Keep  silence  of  noon  on  a  summer  day  ?  " 


AMONG     THE     ASPENS 


And  the  leaves  replied, 

"You  must  question  our  brother  the  rain  of  the 
mountain-side." 

Then  I  said  to  the  rain, 
The  fleeing  silvery  multitudes  of  the  rain, 
"  Who  people  the  wilderness, 
When  the  noon  is  still, 
And  valley  and  hill 

Feel  their  pulses  slow  to  the  summer's  will  ? " 
And  the  rain  replied, 

"  You   must   ask   our  brother  the  fog   on  the 
outward  tide." 

Then  I  said  to  the  fog, 

The  ancient  taciturn  companies  of  the  sea-mist, 

"  Who  people  the  loneliness 

When  your  hordes  emerge 


AMONG     THE     ASPENS 


On  the  grey  sea  verge, 

And  the  wind  begins  his  wailing  dirge  ?  " 

And  the  fog  replied, 

"  Inquire  of  that  inquisitor  at  your  side." 

Then  I  asked  myself.      But  he  knew, 
If  report  of  sense  be  true, 
No  more  than  you. 


v. 

A    SENTRY. 


All  summer  my  companion 
Was  a  white  aspen-tree, 
Far  up  the  sheer  blue  canyon, 
A  glad  door-ward  for  me. 


AMONG     THE     ASPENS 


There  at  the  cabin  entry, 
Where  beauty  went  and  came, 
Abode  that  quiet  sentry, 
Who  knew  the  winds  by  name. 

And  when  to  that  lone  portal, 
All  the  clear  starlight  through, 
Came  news  of  things  immortal 
No  mortal  ever  knew, 

That  vigilant  un  weary 
Kept  solitary  post, 
And  heard  the  woodpipes  eery 
Of  a  fantastic  host, 

Play  down  the  wind  in  sadness, 
Play  up  the  wind  in  glee, — 
The  ancient  lyric  madness, 
The  joy  that  is  to  be. 


AMONG     THE     ASPENS 


They  passed  ;  the  music  ended  ; 
And  through  those  rustling  leaves 
The  morning  sun  descended, 
With  peace  about  my  eaves. 


104 


THE    GREEN   DANCERS. 

When  the  Green  Dance  of  summer 
Goes  up  the  mountain  clove, 
There  is  another  dancer 
Who  follows  it  for  love. 

To  the  sound  of  falling  water, 
Processional  and  slow 
The  children  of  the  forest 
With  waving  branches  go  ; 

And  to  the  wilding  music 
Of  winds  that  loiter  by, 
By  trail,  ravine  and  stream-bed, 
Troop  up  against  the  sky. 

105 


THE     GREEN     DANCERS 

The  bending  yellow  birches, 
The  beeches  cool  and  tall, 
Slim  ash  and  flowering  locust, 
My  gipsy  knows  them  all. 

And  light  of  foot  she  follows, 
And  light  of  heart  gives  heed, 
Where  in  the  blue-green  chasm 
The  wraiths  of  mist  are  freed. 

For  when  the  young  winged  maples 
Hang  out  their  rosy  pods, 
She  knows  it  is  a  message 
From  the  primeval  gods. 

When  tanager  and  cherry 
Show  scarlet  in  the  sun, 
She  slips  her  careworn  habit 
To  put  their  gladness  on. 

1 06 


THE     GREEN     DANCERS 


And  where  the  chestnuts  flower 
Along  the  mountain-side, 
She,  too,  assumes  the  vesture 
And  beauty  of  their  pride. 

She  hears  the  freshening  music 
That  ushers  in  their  day, 
When  from  the  hemlock  shadows 
The  silver  thrushes  play. 

When  the  blue  moth  at  noonday 
Lies  breathing  with  his  wings, 
She  knows  what  piercing  woodnote 
Across  the  silence  rings. 

And  when  the  winds  of  twilight 
Flute  up  the  ides  of  June, 
Where  Kaaterskill  goes  plainward 
Under  a  virgin  moon, 

107 


THE     GREEN     DANCERS 

My  wild  mysterious  spirit 
For  joy  cannot  be  still, 
But  with  the  woodland  dancers 
Must  worship  as  they  will. 

From  rocky  ledge  to  summit 
Where  lead  the  dark-tressed  firs, 
Under  the  open  starshine 
Their  festival  is  hers. 

She  sees  the  moonlit  laurel 
Spread  through  the  misty  gloom 
(The  soul  of  the  wild  forest 
Veiled  in  a  mesh  of  bloom). 

Then  to  the  lulling  murmur 
Of  leaves  she,  too,  will  rest, 
Curtained  by  northern  streamers 
Upon  some  dark  hill-crest. 

108 


THE     GREEN      DANCERS 

And  still,  in  glad  procession 
And  solemn  bright  array, 
A  dance  of  gold-green  shadows 
About  her  sleep  will  play  ; 

Her  signal  from  the  frontier, 
There  is  no  bar  nor  toll 
Nor  dearth  of  joy  forever 
To  stay  the  gipsy  soul. 


109 


THE    WIND    AT   THE    DOOR. 

Often  to  my  open  door 
Comes  a  twilight  visitor. 

When  the  mountain  summer  day 
From  our  valley  takes  his  way, 

And  the  journeying  shadows  stride 
Over  the  green  mountain-side, 

Down  the  clove  among  the  trees 
Moves  the  ghostly  wandering  breeze. 

With  the  first  stars  on   the  crest 
And  the  pale  light  in  the  west, 


THE     WIND     AT     THE     DOOR 

He  comes  up  the  dark  ravine 
Where  no  traveller  is  seen. 

Yet  his  coming  makes  a  stir 
In  the  house  of  Ash  and  Fir  : 

"  Master,  is't  in  our  abode 
You  will  tarry  on  the  road  ?  " 

"  Nay,  I  like  your  roof-tree  well, 
But  with  you  I  may  not  dwell." 

Birches  whisper  at  their  sill, 
As  he  passes  up  the  hill : 

u  Stranger,  underneath  our  boughs 
There  is  ample  room  to  house." 

"  Friends,  I  have  another  quest 
Than  your  cool  abiding  rest." 


THE     WIND     AT     THE      DOOR 

And  the  fluttering  Aspen  knows 
Whose  step  by  her  doorway  goes : 

"  Honour,  Lord,  thy  silver  tree 
And  the  chamber  laid  for  thee." 

"  Nay,  I  must  be  faring  on, 
For  to-night  I  seek  my  own. 

"  Breath  of  the  red  dust  is  he 
And  a  wayfarer  like  me  ; 

"  Here  a  moment  and  then  lost 
On  a  trail  confused  and  crossed. 

"  And  I  gently  would  surprise 
Recognition  in  his  eyes  ; 

"  Touch  his  hand  and  talk  with  him 
When  the  forest  light  is  dim, 


THE     WIND     AT     THE      DOOR 

"  Taking  counsel  with  the  lord 
Of  the  utterable  word." 

Hark,  did  you  hear  some  one  try 
The  west  window  furtively, 

And  then  move  among  the  leaves 
In  the  shadow  of  the  eaves  ? 

The  reed  curtain  at  the  door 
Rustled  ;  there's  my  visitor 

Who  comes  searching  for  his  kin. 
"  Enter,  brother  j  I'm  within." 


"3 


AT  THE  YELLOW  OF  THE 
LEAF. 

The  falling  leaf  is  at  the  door ; 
The  autumn  wind  is  on  the  hill ; 
Footsteps  I  have  heard  before 
Loiter  at  my  cabin  sill. 

Full  of  crimson  and  of  gold 
Is  the  morning  in  the  leaves ; 
And  a  stillness  pure  and  cold 
Hangs  about  the  frosty  eaves. 

The  mysterious  autumn  haze 
Steals  across  the  blue  ravine, 
Like  an  Indian  ghost  that  strays 
Through  his  olden  lost  demesne. 


114 


AT     THE     YELLOW     OF     THE      LEAF 

Now  the  goldenrod  invades 
Every  clearing  in  the  hills  ; 
The  dry  glow  of  August  fades, 
And  the  lonely  cricket  shrills. 

Yes,  by  every  trace  and  sign 
The  good  roving  days  are  here. 
Mountain  peak  and  river  line 
Float  the  scarlet  of  the  year. 

Lovelier  than  ever  now 
Is  the  world  I  love  so  well. 
Running  water,  waving  bough, 
And  the  bright  wind's  magic  spell 

Rouse  the  taint  of  migrant  blood 
With  the  fever  of  the  road,  — 
Impulse  older  than  the  flood 
Lurking  in  its  last  abode. 


"5 


AT     THE     YELLOW     OF     THE     LEAF 

Did  I  once  pursue  your  way, 
Little  brothers  of  the  air, 
Following  the  vernal  ray  ? 
Did  I  learn  my  roving  there  ? 

Was  it  on  your  long  spring  rides, 
Little  brothers  of  the  sea, 
In  the  dim  and  peopled  tides, 
That  I  learned  this  vagrancy  ? 

Now  the  yellow  of  the  leaf 
Bids  away  by  hill  and  plain, 
I  shall  say  good-bye  to  grief, 
Wayfellow  with  joy  again. 

The  glamour  of  the  open  door 
Is  on  me,  and  I  would  be  gone, — 
Speak  with  truth  or  speak  no  more, 
House  with  beauty  or  with  none. 

116 


AT     THE     YELLOW     OF     THE      LEAF 

Great  and  splendid,  near  and  far, 
Lies  the  province  of  desire  ; 
Love  the  only  silver  star 
Its  discoverers  require. 

I  shall  lack  nor  tent  nor  food, 
Nor  companion  in  the  way, 
For  the  kindly  solitude 
Will  provide  for  me  to-day. 

Few  enough  have  been  my  needs ; 
Fewer  now  they  are  to  be ; 
Where  the  faintest  follow  leads, 
There  is  heart's  content  for  me. 

Leave  the  bread  upon  the  board ; 
Leave  the  book  beside  the  chair  j 
With  the  murmur  of  the  ford, 
Light  of  spirit  I  shall  fare. 


117 


AT     THE     YELLOW     OF     THE     LEAF 

Leave  the  latch-string  in  the  door, 
And  the  pile  of  logs  to  burn  ; 
Others  may  be  here  before 
I  have  leisure  to  return. 


uS 


THE    SILENT    WAYFELLOW 

To-day  when  the  birches  are  yellow, 
And  red  is  the  wayfaring  tree, 
Sit  down  in  the  sun,  my  soul, 
And  talk  of  yourself  to  me  ! 

Here  where  the  old  blue  rocks 
Bask  in  the  forest  shine, 
Dappled  with  shade  and  lost 
In  their  reverie  divine. 

How  goodly  and  sage  they  are  ! 
Priests  of  the  taciturn  smile 
Rebuking  our  babble  and  haste, 
Yet  loving  us  all  the  while. 


"9 


THE     SILENT     WAYFELLOW 

In  the  asters  the  wild  gold  bees 
Make  a  warm  busy  drone, 
Where  our  Mother  at  Autumn's  door 
Sits  warming  her  through  to  the  bone. 

The  filmy  gossamer  threads 
Are  hung  from  the  black  fir  bough, 
Changing  from  purple  to  green  — 
The  half-shut  eye  knows  how. 

What  is  your  afterthought 
When  a  red  leaf  rustles  down, 
Or  the  chickadees  from  the  hush 
Challenge  a  brief  renown  ? 

When  silence  falls  again 
Asleep  on  hillside  and  crest, 
Resuming  her  ancient  mood, 
Do  you  still  say,  "  Life  is  best  ?  " 

120 


THE      SILENT     WAYFELLOW 

Was  this  reticence  of  yours 
By  the  terms  of  being  imposed  ? 
One  would  say  that  you  dwelt 
With  shutters  always  closed. 

We  have  been  friends  so  long, 
And  yet  not  a  single  word 
Of  yourself,  your  kith  or  kin 
Or  home,  have  I  ever  heard. 

Nightly  we  sup  and  part, 
Daily  you  come  to  my  door ; 
Strange  we  should  be  such  mates, 
Yet  never  have  talked  before. 

A  cousin  to  downy-feather, 
And  brother  to  shining-fin, 
Am  I,  of  the  breed  of  earth, 
And  yet  of  an  alien  kin, 


THE     SILENT     WAYFELLOW 

Made  from  the  dust  of  the  road 
And  a  measure  of  silver  rain, 
To  follow  you  brave  and  glad, 
Unmindful  of  plaudit  or  pain. 

Dear  to  the  mighty  heart, 
Born  of  her  finest  mood, 
Great  with  the  impulse  of  joy, 
With  the  rapture  of  life  imbued, 

Radiant  moments  are  yours, 
Glimmerings  over  the  verge 
Of  a  country  where  one  day 
Our  forest  trail  shall  emerge. 

When  the  road  winds  under  a  ledge, 
You  keep  the  trudging  pace, 
Till  it  mounts  a  shoulder  of  hill 
To  the  open  sun  and  space. 


THE      SILENT     WAYFELLOW 

Ah,  then  you  dance  and  go, 
Illumined  spirit  again, 
Child  of  the  foreign  tongue 
And  the  dark  wilding  strain ! 

In  these  October  days 
Have  you  glimpses  hid  from  me 
Of  old-time  splendid  state 
In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea  ? 

Is  it  for  that  you  smile, 
Indifferent  to  fate  and  fame, 
Enduring  this  nomad  life 
Contented  without  a  name  ? 

Through  the  long  winter  dark, 
When  slumber  is  at  my  sill, 
Will  you  leave  me  dreamfast  there, 
For  your  journey  over  the  hill  ? 

123 


THE     SILENT     WAYFELLOW 

To-night  when  the  forest  trees 
Gleam  in  the  frosty  air, 
And  over  the  roofs  of  men 
Stillness  is  everywhere, 

By  the  cold  hunter's  moon 
What  trail  will  you  take  alone, 
Through  the  white  realms  of  sleep 
To  your  native  land  unknown  ? 

Here  while  the  birches  are  yellow, 
And  red  is  the  wayfaring  tree, 
Sit  down  in  the  sun,  my  soul, 
And  talk  of  yourself  to  me. 


124 


PICTOR   IGNOTUS. 

He  is  a  silent  second  self 
Who  travels  with  me  in  the  road ; 
I  share  his  lean-to  in  the  hills, 
He  shares  my  modest  town  abode. 

Under  the  roof-tree  of  the  world 
We  keep  the  gipsy  calendar, 
As  the  revolving  seasons  rise 
Above  the  tree-tops,  star  by  star. 

We  watch  the  arctic  days  burn  down 
Upon  the  hearthstone  of  the  sun, 
And  on  the  frozen  river  floors 
The  whispering  snows  awake  and  run. 


125 


PICTOR     IGNOTUS 


Then  in  the  still,  portentous  cold 
Of  a  blue  twilight,  deep  and  large, 
We  see  the  northern  bonfires  lit 
Along  the  world's  abysmal  marge. 

He  watches,  with  a  love  untired, 
The  white  sea-combers  race  to  shore 
Below  the  mossers'  purple  huts, 
When  April  goes  from  door  to  door. 

He  haunts  the  mountain  trails  that  wind 
To  sudden  outlooks  from  grey  crags, 
When  marches  up  the  blue  ravine 
September  with  her  crimson  flags. 

The  wonder  of  an  ancient  awe 
Takes  hold  upon  him  when  he  sees 
In  the  cold  autumn  dusk  arise 
Orion  and  the  Pleiades ; 


126 


PICTOR     IGNOTUS 


Or  when  along  the  southern  rim 
Of  the  mysterious  summer  night 
He  marks,  above  the  sleeping  world, 
Antares  with  his  scarlet  light. 

The  creamy  shadow -fretted  streets 
Of  some  small  Caribbean  town, 
Where  through  the  soft  wash  of  the  trades 
The  brassy  tropic  moon  looks  down ; 

The  palm-trees  whispering  to  the  blue 
That  surfs  along  the  coral  key  ; 
The  brilliant  shining  droves  that  fleet 
Through  the  bright  gardens  of  the  sea. 

The  crimson-boled  Floridian  pines 
Glaring  in  sunset,  where  they  stand 
Lifting  their  sparse,  monotonous  lines 
Out  of  the  pink  and  purple  sand ; 


127 


PICTOR     IGNOTUS 


The  racing  Fundy  tides  that  brim 
The  level  dikes  ;  the  orchards  there  ; 
And  the  slow  cattle  moving  through 
That  marvellous  Acadian  air; 

The  city  of  the  flowery  squares, 
With  the  Potomac  by  her  door ; 
The  monument  that  takes  the  light 
Of  evening  by  the  river  shore  ; 

The  city  of  the  Gothic  arch, 
That  overlooks  a  wide  green  plain 
From  her  grey  churches,  and  beholds 
The  silver  ribbon  of  the  Seine  ; 

The  Indian  in  his  birch  canoe, 
The  flower-seller  in  Cheapside ; 
Wherever  in  the  wide  round  world 
The  Likeness  and  the  Word  abide ; 

128 


PICTOR     IGNOTUS 


He  scans  and  ioves  the  human  book, 
With  that  reserved  and  tranquil  eye 
That  watched  among  the  autumn  hills 
The  golden  leisured  pomp  go  by. 

What  wonder,  since  with  lavish  hand 
Kind  earth  has  given  him  her  all 
Of  love  and  beauty,  he  should  be 
A  smiling,  thriftless  prodigal ! 


129 


EPHEMERON. 

Ah,  brother,  it  is  bitter  cold  in  here 
This  time  of  year  ! 
December  is  a  sorry  month  indeed 
For  your  frail  August  breed. 

I  find  you  numb  this  morning  on  the  pane, 
Searching  in  vain 

A  little  warmth  to  thaw  those  airy  vans, 
Arrested  in  their  plans. 

I  breathe  on  you  ;  and  lo,  with  lurking  might 
Those  members  slight 
Revive  and  stir;  the  little  human  breath 
Dissolves  their  frosty  death, 


130 


EPHEMERON 


You  trim  those  quick  antennae  as  of  old, 

Forget  the  cold, 

And   spread  those  stiffened  sails  once  more  to 

dare 
The  elemental  air. 

Does  that  thin  deep,  unmarinered  and  blue, 
Come  back  to  you, 

Dreaming  of  ports  whose  bearing  you  have  lost, 
Where  cruised  no  pirate  frost  ? 

Ah,  shipmate,  there'll  be  two  of  us  some  night, 
In  ghostly  plight, 

In  cheerless  latitudes  beyond  renown, 
When  the  long  frost  shuts  down. 

What  if  that  day,  in  unexpected  guise, 
Strong,  kind,  and  wise, 
Above  me  should  the  great  Befriender  bow, 
As  I  above  you  now,  — 


EPHEMERON 


Reset  the  ruined  time-lock  of  the  heart, 
And  bid  it  start, 

And  every  frost-bound  joint  and  valve  restore 
To  supple  play  once  more  ! 


132 


THE    HERETIC. 

One  day  as  I  sat  and  suffered 
A  long  discourse  upon  sin, 
At  the  door  of  my  heart  I  listened, 
And  heard  this  speech  within. 

One  whisper  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
Outweighs  for  me  a  thousand  tomes ; 
And  I  must  heed  that  private  word, 
Not  Plato's,  Swedenborg's,  nor  Rome's. 

The  voice  of  beauty  and  of  power 
Which  came  to  the  beloved  John, 
In  age  upon  his  lonely  isle, 
That  voice  I  will  obey,  or  none. 


nz 


THE      HERETIC 


Let  not  tradition  fill  my  ears 
With  prate  of  evil  and  of  good, 
Nor  superstition  cloak  my  sight 
Of  beauty  with  a  bigot's  hood. 

Give  me  the  freedom  of  the  earth, 
The  leisure  of  the  light  and  air, 
That  this  enduring  soul  some  part 
Of  their  serenity  may  share  ! 

The  word  that  lifts  the  purple  shaft 
Of  crocus  and  of  hyacinth 
Is  more  to  me  than  platitudes 
Rethundering  from  groin  and  plinth. 

And  at  the  first  clear,  careless  strain 
Poured  from  a  woodbird's  silver  throat, 
I  have  forgotten  all  the  lore 
The  preacher  bade  me  get  by  rote. 


i34 


THE      HERETIC 


Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  porch 
I  hear  the  wind  among  the  trees, 
The  river  babbling  in  the  clove, 
And  that  great  sound  that  is  the  sea's. 

Let  me  have  brook  and  flower  and  bird 
For  counsellors,  that  I  may  learn 
The  very  accent  of  their  tongue, 
And  its  least  syllable  discern. 

For  I,  my  brother,  so  would  live 
That  I  may  keep  the  elder  law 
Of  beauty  and  of  certitude, 
Of  daring  love  and  blameless  awe. 

Be  others  worthy  to  receive 
The  naked  messages  of  God ; 
I  am  content  to  find  their  trace 
Among  the  people  of  the  sod. 


i35 


THE     HERETIC 


The  gold-voiced  dwellers  of  the  wood 
Flute  up  the  morning  as  I  pass  ; 
And  in  the  dusk  I  lay  me  down 
With  star-eyed  children  of  the  grass. 

I  harken  for  the  winds  of  spring, 

And  haunt  the  marge  of  swamp  and  stream, 

Till  in  the  April  night  I  hear 

The  revelation  of  the  dream. 

I  listen  when  the  orioles 
Come  up  the  earth  with  early  June, 
And  the  old  apple-orchards  spread 
Their  odorous  glories  to  the  moon. 

So  I  would  keep  my  natural  days, 
By  sunlit  sea,  by  moonlit  hill, 
With  the  dark  beauty  of  the  earth 
Enchanted  and  enraptured  still. 


136 


AFTER    SCHOOL. 

When  all  my  lessons  have  been  learned, 
And  the  last  year  at  school  is  done, 
I  shall  put  up  my  books  and  games ; 
"  Good-by,  my  fellows,  every  one  !  " 

The  dusty  road  will  not  seem  long, 
Nor  twilight  lonely,  nor  forlorn 
The  everlasting  whippoorwills 
That  lead  me  back  where  I  was  born. 

And  there  beside  the  open  door, 

In  a  large  country  dim  and  cool, 

Her  waiting  smile  shall  hear  at  last, 

"  Mother,  I  am  come  home  from  school." 


i37 


r  yof 


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